


Phonographs and Warm Jumpers

by rowankhanna



Series: Newt and Credence at Christmas [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Cute, Fluff, Fluffy, Gift Giving, M/M, Post-Canon, Warm, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, festive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 16:56:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8999212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowankhanna/pseuds/rowankhanna
Summary: It doesn’t occur to him why Newt is waking him up and looking exceedingly excited until he whispers “Merry Christmas, Credence!”. “Oh,” Credence blusters, sitting up. “I – I’ve never had a Christmas.”





	

Credence never knows what day it is and it never matters to him considering he so scarcely leaves the house or the suitcase. He knows it’s winter, because they left in November, and when he surfaces from out of the case, rain and snow batter the flimsy windows keeping Newt from the elements. The rooms are all well-lit from the encroaching darkness that comes too soon in the day, though Credence can never tell where the light sources from.

He also knows that it’s December, because when he emerges one day from the case to find Newt dozing on the sofa, a deep pine Christmas tree standing by the toasting fire, wrapped round with multicoloured tinsel and glowing softly. Tinsel also frames some of the paintings on Newt’s walls, already shedding colour on the floor. Newt mentions to Credence at some point while they sit round the small table in his kitchen that Christmas is coming, but makes no fuss and it skips Credence’s mind, being a tradition he’s never celebrated. _Christmas encourages greed_ , he remembers. He also remembers spending most of his Christmases praying that he would be free, on his knees in the floor of a church much grander and warmer than their own.

It does not, then, occur to him why Newt is waking him up and looking exceedingly excited until he whispers “Merry Christmas, Credence!”.

“Oh,” Credence blusters, sitting up. “I – I’ve never had a Christmas.”

“Don’t worry, nobody’s coming. It’s just you and me and the creatures. But it’s almost afternoon, so I wanted to wake you up for Christmas dinner – which takes place in the afternoon, usually, just to be confusing.” Newt straightens up. “I fed everyone and the dinner is just cooking, so come upstairs when you’re ready.”

“Okay,” Credence mumbles, watching Newt climb up and out. The shed isn’t the most spacious, but he likes it, used to the many drawers and lush green plants, and he prefers sleeping there, on his own, lulled by the regular movements outside. He opens one of the larger drawers and takes out a jumper and a pair of slightly ill-fitting trousers, swapping them for his night clothes, which he tucks back into the drawer. He feels a twinge when he laces up his belt, pulling it tight so that the trousers fit snugly to his waist, and washes his face with a stained white flannel, looking a little red when he places it back over the sink.

The house is warmer than usual, a pleasant small wafting through from the kitchen, and the table from the kitchen is set in the living room instead, with a large plate on both sides and glasses for water. The phonograph in the corner which was covered in dust is clean and shining, quietly playing jazz records that occasionally stutter and pause.

Credence peers in through the open door of the kitchen. Plates hang suspended in the air, loaded with food that flies up of its own accord, organising itself, and Newt peers up from the roast he’s in the middle of seasoning. “Hello,” he says. “Sit down, won’t you? I’ll bring the food through in a moment.”

There’s a pillow on the seat that’s usually Credence’s, so he sits on top of it, fluffy and blown up with stuffing. Food begins to come floating through on Newt’s finest china, the plates setting down and arranging themselves neatly along the centre of the table, the roast the grand centrepiece. A jug of water fills both glasses halfway up and sets itself down, and finally, once everything is at the table, so is Newt, opposite Credence.

“This is your first Christmas, then?” he asks. Credence nods. “Well, help yourself to however much of anything you want. I don’t mind leftovers. We’ll be having dessert, too, and eggnog. And we’ll open presents after dinner.”

“Presents?” Credence looks up from his empty plate. “We?”

“You have presents, too,” Newt says cheerily, serving himself up a large amount of roast. One thing that Credence has learned is that Newt bounces from no appetite to the appetite of an Erumpent, and today seems to be one of those better days, where he rivals his own creatures in eating habits. “We have some from Tina and Queenie. And I bought you a few things.”

“Why?” He looks across the table, eyes wide.

“We live together. And I care about you. And you deserve some kindness for once in your life.” Newt takes a sip of water. “Go on. Have something.” Credence shyly helps himself to a much smaller amount of roast and a few bits and bobs from the remaining plates, unsure what most of the foodstuffs actually are. Some of them taste revolving (see: Brussels sprouts), but some have a taste that wraps Credence up like the mother he never had, and he soon finds himself gorging, whipped away to another world, the house suddenly seeming cosier, the highlights on the tinsel shining brighter and the jazz records smoothing out. Newt smiles at him. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he says through a mouthful of food, unable to contain himself and his manners and bursting out his shell. Newt chuckles at him.

“We will have to make sure you have the best Christmases from now on,” he assures Credence, and they feast in almost silence, enjoying the surprisingly rich tastes of Newt’s mostly magical cooking. Newt changes his mind, deciding that they’ll open the presents before dessert, and Credence finds himself sitting in front of a pile of neatly wrapped boxes, some sealed with lovely red ribbon, all of them bearing tags with Credence’s name on them, mostly in neat cursive. He stares at them for a while, bemused by the novelty of actually having presents to open, gifts for _him_ and him alone, when Newt comes and sits next to him, patting his leg. “You can open them, you know. They won’t bite. There’s not a Murtlap in there, I promise.”

Credence, with fumbling hands, pulls apart the ribbon on the box addressed from Newt. It’s another chunky jumper, like the one he’s already wearing, but it’s thicker and warmer and more expensive-looking, in burgundy. He resists the temptation to pull it on right there and refolds it neatly, laying it beside him.

“Sorry it’s not special,” says Newt.

“It’s special,” says Credence. “You bought me something. That’s special.”

Newt has also bought him some more books to read in his spare time, which is plentiful, and a brown leather notebook, just like the one he used to write _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ , even buying Credence some fountain pens so that he doesn’t have to fumble with Newt’s favoured quills. Tina and Queenie also send him more clothes, and Queenie sends him a handwritten recipe book so that he can occupy his time, and she sends him a knitting kit, too. As he sits, wrapping a thread of yarn around his finger and then unravelling it, Newt approaches again, holding a glass of something strange, thick, and white.

“It’s eggnog,” he says, handing it to Credence, who takes a sip. His face contracts immediately and uncontrollably at the taste, and Newt finds himself extremely amused by this, taking it and drinking the rest. “Not for everyone, I suppose.” He gives Credence some chocolate pudding for dessert and finishes his eggnog, sitting beside Credence as the day begins to draw into dusk. “So, what’s your verdict on Christmas?”

“I like it,” Credence says gently. He’s surprised by the feeling of love and adoration that surrounds the day, the feeling of belonging from the simple act of opening a box holding him tight, in a bear hug.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Credence goes red as he asks, but he does: “Can you... touch me like Graves did?”

Newt knows from Credence’s stories, few and far between they come but in a rush, an outpouring of suppressed emotion, the kind that makes him shake again, what happened to him, and he feels hesitance, not wanting to stir anything unpleasant, but he’s been asked and who is he to deny something that Credence wants, even if it’s something that he knows that Credence is hung up on?

He raises his hands and lays them on either side of Credence’s face, which is hot against his colder hands, and Credence just melts into him, even though Newt’s hands aren’t as secure and are a little unsure, entirely unlike Graves (or was it Grindelwald?). He takes deep breaths, inhaling the smell of Newt and eggnog and Christmas, and everything feels alright, everything feels like it’s together and connected.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

“You’re welcome,” Newt replies, touching his forehead to Credence’s. “Merry Christmas.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!! I don't like this one too much, but dang it, I love me some Christmas fluff and I'm sure you guys do too.


End file.
